Now there cried a certain woman of the wives of the sons of the prophets unto Elisha, saying, thy servant my husband is dead; and thou knowest that thy servant did fear the Lord: and the creditor is come to take unto him my two sons to be bondmen.
And Elisha said unto her, What shall I do for thee? tell me, what hast thou in the house? And she said, Thine handmaid hath not any thing in the house, save a pot of oil.
Then he said, Go, borrow thee vessels abroad of all thy neighbours, even empty vessels; borrow not a few. And when thou art come in, thou shalt shut the door upon thee and upon thy sons, and shalt pour out into all those vessels, and thou shalt set aside that which is full.
So she went from him, and shut the door upon her and upon her sons, who brought the vessels to her; and she poured out. And it came to pass, when the vessels were full, that she said unto her son, Bring me yet a vessel. And he said unto her, There is not a vessel more. And the oil stayed. Then she came and told the man of God. And he said, Go, sell the oil, and pay thy debt, and live thou and thy children of the rest.

I experienced the truth of this parable years ago, when one of our daughters was admitted to a school for girls and the tuition was high
I phoned our Christian Science teacher, a Practitioner, and asked for help because we were living on my wife’s salary. A CS practitioner helps anyone who asks for help with a problem by praying as we learn in CScience.
Charlie listened and then asked “What have you got in the house?”
I said we had some inherited furniture, he repeated the question and bade me think about it and act on whatever came up.
I hung up the phone and sat down at the typewriter where I was writing a long ambitious novel. But finishing and selling it would be a year or more…then I realized the point he was making, called Charlie again and said “I can type pretty fast.”
He said, go to work. I found firms that hired out typists, went in and they sat me down for a typing test. It was a new Royal typewriter, a big bulky hunk, with keys that moved arms that struck through an inked ribbon to make letters. I had learned to type in a highschool course and exercised while in school on papers due, the school’s newspaper, and in college where I studied journalism. They recorded me at typing more than 100 letters a minute. Or maybe it was wpm, in any case, Fast.

Within an hour they placed me at a small service bureau and that modest $2.50 per-page salary gradually grew until I was earning more money than my previous executive editorial salary.